


What Else Are Little Brothers For?

by Katzedecimal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Piano, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:27:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Sherlock both play an instrument, but they play for <i>very</i> different reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smoke Test

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joudama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joudama/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fratres for Violin and Piano](https://archiveofourown.org/works/495523) by [joudama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joudama/pseuds/joudama). 



> Inspired by the way [Marc-Andre Hamelin plays Liszt's _Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pIMzL2-4bjg) :3 
> 
> Yes, I ~~rehashed one of my previous fics~~ used a variation on a theme : >

_"Are you just going to play that thing and ignore me?_

Which was proof, in that one question, that Mycroft **still** just didn't 'get' him. 

Musical discipline had been mandated by their father; the only choice they had had was in what instrument to play. Sherlock had chosen the violin because of its versitility. In his hands, the violin could sing sweetly or screech like a banshee; he could play mournful dirges when he was depressed, or stir himself with lively Celtic fiddling when he was on a particularly good case. He played because it drowned out the background noises of the world and helped him focus his thoughts. He played because it was soothing and restful, the vibrations making a pleasant buzz. He enjoyed playing and he enjoyed thinking, so it was natural that he should play while he thought about things. It was also somewhat unconscious. He'd start to get involved in a problem and his fingers would start to pluck out a tune of their own accord... and then Mycroft would have to ruin it with a crack like _that. ___

Granted, it wasn't **entirely** Mycroft's fault, at least in this matter. They played for different reasons, after all. The expression of emotion was forbidden by their father - men were to be in command of themselves at all times, not wibbling away like women, but nevertheless it frothed and foamed deep below the surface. Sherlock was never quite able to name what he was feeling (not without several hours of cogitation on the matter) but he could bring it out through his music. But Mycroft had been under even more pressure to conform to their father's rigid post-War masculine ideal and his job only reinforced it. Mycroft had chosen the piano, but he didn't play because he enjoyed it and he didn't play to encourage his thinking. 

He played to release his fury. 

Which is what Sherlock and John heard now, standing in the foyer of Mycroft's house, quietly making their way towards the music room. Sherlock held his finger to his lips in a gesture to John; Liszt's _Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2_ , which meant that Mycroft knew he was in a state and was trying to snap himself out of it. Sherlock listened for a few moments. Quite often, he could judge his big brother's mood by the severity of how he attacked the keys. 

[18:27 SH: He's in a right strop. Best to keep quiet for a bit and let him play it out.]

John glanced up at him and nodded, then put his phone away and followed Sherlock down the halls.

"Attacked" was definitely the right word. They hadn't been allowed to choose the drums but the piano could withstand quite a bit of violence. Mycroft was definitely frustrated today, smashing the keys in a way that told Sherlock that people had been particularly dense lately, missing the most obvious of concepts no matter how simply Mycroft attempted to phrase it for them. He recalled that his big brother had been meeting with an international team of operatives and decided that some of them had done something mindbuggeringly stupid and the rest had gone along with it, overriding Mycroft's protests - Mycroft suffered from the Curse of Cassandra, sometimes. Now the whole project was likely to crash in flames. 

Much like the piano. Honestly, the way Mycroft was playing it, it was a wonder the poor abused instrument was still standing. It was shaking like it was in an earthquake. 

They had been sitting quietly on the settee for several minutes now, unacknowledged. That wasn't unusual; Mycroft accused Sherlock of _"playing that thing and ignoring me"_ because that's what **he** did. But it was dawning on Sherlock that the reason they hadn't been acknowledged was because they hadn't actually been noticed yet. 

Oh. Well then. He started to grin, thinking of the smoke bombs he kept in a pocket in the lining of his coat. They came in handy sometimes, although he used them more for disorienting crooks than for making fancy exits, however much John liked to speculate to the contrary. He wondered if he could be quiet enough... 

John glanced up at him and frowned as Sherlock eased himself up off the settee. He mouthed 'What are you doing?' but his flatmate just grinned at him, with a mischevious sparkle in his eyes. He watched as Sherlock sneaked around the piano, utterly silent, drop something inside of it, then glided back to the settee. Then John had to clap his hands over his mouth as the first wisps of smoke started rising. Even Sherlock was biting on his knuckle with a wide wide smirk, waiting to see how this would go. 

Mycroft was nearing the end of the _Rhapsody_ , his face drawn in intense concentration, focusing his frustrated rage through his hands. The piano shook from the crashing crescendos and John Watson's shoulders shook from the effort of not laughing as more and more smoke billowed out over the oblivious Mycroft. 

Finally he reached the end. His fists smashed out the final chords and he sat back, panting, and opened his eyes. _**"AAAAAH!!!"**_ Hysterical laughter exploded behind him and he spun about on the bench to see John crying with laughter, half-collapsed across Sherlock, whose grin was threatening to split his face in half. "Oh for God's sake, Sherlock!"


	2. Family, Music, and Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a new incentive for pranking Mycroft. As if pranking Mycroft wasn't incentive enough by itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loosely inspired by [Victor Borge's classic piano antics.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W8R0ZwYvXpg)

He'd be a dark and stormy sight. They'd been summoned to Mycroft's home this time, so at least he was expecting them. Sherlock exchanged a glance with John - it was likely to be a short visit, but also likely to be an unpleasant one. Mycroft was playing the _Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2_ again. 

[19:47 John Watson: No smoke bombs this time.]

[19:48 SH: Of course not. He knows we're here.]

Sherlock grinned and disdained the housekeeper's direction to the sitting room, choosing instead to follow the music. John tagged along because to leave the Holmes Brothers unattended was to invite disaster. 

"You're playing it wrong."

Mycroft didn't look up but his face did crease into a faint scowl, "I am not."

"You are, you keep hitting the wrong note and your tempo is off."

"My tempo is fine, Sherlock, and I am not hitting any wrong notes."

"You are, you keep hitting this one wrong." Sherlock reached across and tapped the note smartly, causing Mycroft to yelp.

"Don't do that!"

"Your tempo's off," Sherlock reached across to tap the note again.

"Well it's off **now** if you keep butting in! Go away, Sherlock."

"You asked us here," Sherlock stretched across, playing a run of notes. He kept glancing back out of the corner of his eye. "Shove over." And he unceremoniously plunked himself onto the bench beside his brother. 

"Get off my bench!" Mycroft yelped. As if to reclaim his territory, he reached **around** Sherlock, practically embracing him, in an effort to keep the music going. 

Then he heard it -- the unmistakable high-pitched giggle of one Dr. John H. Watson, M.D., barely suppressed. And he saw the very subtle changes in Sherlock's eye and cheek muscles, shifting into a tiny, tiny, barely perceptible smile. Then his little brother caught his eye and he knew what this was about: Making John laugh.

Ohhhhh. Well. He could get behind _that._ And it would certainly take his mind off the problems for which he had summoned them in the first place. "The piano isn't even your area."

"And I can _still_ play it better than you," Sherlock retorted, leaning bodily across his brother to reach the keys.

"If you're going to insist on this lunacy, you could stick to your own side of the keyboard."

"I would if you weren't hogging the bench."

Now their hands were weaving, settling into something of a rhythm and the music was cohering again. "It's impossible to hog something that is designed for **one person** , Sherlock."

"Which is why you needed one designed for twoOW!" Sherlock yelped as his brother, with an angelic smile, "accidentally" trod on his foot while reaching for the pedal. "And your tempo is off again."

Mycroft stretched around him to hit a chord on the bass side, " _Your_ tempo is off, that was your note."

"That wasn't my note, _this_ is my note."

"No, _this_ is." They were reaching around and across each other, completely in one another's way, and it should not have been possible to produce coherant music like this. And coherant music should never be punctuated by such a distressingly high-pitched giggle as John's. 

"You don't even know your own music!"

"Excuse me? Who is the pianist around here?"

"You said it, not me." John burst into sharp laughter when he caught the nasty little pun in there. "But it's good you're finally admitting it."

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock!"

"Get out of my way."

"I am not **in** your way, **you** are in **mine.** " Mycroft leaned back as Sherlock stretched across him, pounding out a run of notes. Then he slid off the bench with a huff and ran quickly to the other side to start the next run, "Move over!"

"I can't not, there's no room for me with your arse taking up the entire bench." Sherlock span up and raced around to the bass side again.

"That's the whole point," Mycroft glared at him as he skootched along. Sherlock tried to glare back but John's hysterical laughter at their antics sapped all the venom out of his eyes and left a mischievious sparkle instead.

Now they were entering the ending stanzas, weaving around and through each other. At one point Sherlock was stretched full length along the keyboard, his tongue protruding between his lips as he played the highest keys, with Mycroft bent around him trying to play the rest of the stanza, while John cried with laughter and cursed himself for only **now** thinking he should have been recording this on his phone.

Finally they smashed out the final crescendos and glared at each other.... then dissolved into giggles themselves.


End file.
